


Steel Under Skin

by audreyskdramablog



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Description of Corpses, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Video Game Mechanics, action scenes are the worst, i'm trying to warn you, in which these two repeatedly fight each other to the death for training purposes, it's not that detailed but the body is still described, lots of bodies are described, that’s it that’s the fic, with a bit of extra blood thrown in, yay for phoenix downs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2019-07-15 13:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16064444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyskdramablog/pseuds/audreyskdramablog
Summary: The Amicitias may not be royalty, but they have traditions, not quite sacred, of their own. It is the duty of the King’s Shield to train the heir’s. It isn’t a duty that is to be foisted off on anyone else, no matter how difficult it is. They are a family forged in blood and the willingness to sacrificeeverything.Their children. Their parents. Themselves.Gladiolus is prepared to face his father in the training grounds. He’s known it would happen since he first began his own training to be Noct’s protector. He never thought he would fight his friend.





	1. Autumn, M.E. 751

**Author's Note:**

> [Original prompt:](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4398.html?thread=7567150#cmt7567150) Gladio needs to be prepared and desensitised to killing and dying in defence of Noct. What better way to train for that than have him repeatedly fight to the death with his closest friend/boyfriend? Then just phoenix down the loser.
> 
> This fic begins when Gladio is 18 and Ignis is 17.

Five months after Gladiolus is sworn into the Crownsguard, the last section of his tattoo has healed enough that taking a potion won’t fuck it up. After Iris goes to bed, he knocks at his father’s study door. 

Clarus isn’t behind his desk, though there are plenty of papers and folders piled on it. He is on one of the couches at the little sitting area, a half-empty glass of brandy on the coffee table and a book in his hand. 

Gladio takes the couch across from his father while Clarus finds his bookmark and sets his novel aside. “My tattoo has healed.”

Clarus pauses. Gladio does not squirm as his father looks him up and down, and he pretends he doesn’t notice the way his father’s jaw clenches, just for a moment. “All right. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. It may take a while.” 

“Of course. Let me know when you’re ready.”

* * *

A servant delivers the summons to his father’s Citadel office while Gladiolus is in the middle of reviewing the security plans for the upcoming autumn festival. Both the king and the prince will participate, and while Gladio will be near Noctis the entire time, he still needs to be familiar with where the security details will be and where the planned exit routes are. 

Cor tells him to come back once Clarus is done with him, so Gladio salutes and then leaves to find his father. With every step, something builds in his chest. It isn’t fearful enough to be dread, nor is it jittery enough for actual excitement. It leaves him feeling minorly unsettled by the time he arrives. 

He presents himself to the guards outside his father’s office, enters when permission is given, and stops just inside the threshold when he realizes his father isn’t alone. 

Ignis sits calmly in one of the two chairs across from his father’s desk, right leg crossed over the left. For all the positioning of his body implies Ignis is relaxed, Gladio notices the tension lurking in the corners of his mouth. 

The door closes behind him, and the sound propels him forward, into the second seat. He keeps his gaze on his father, though he is keenly aware of Ignis in his periphery. 

“His Majesty and I have had a lively discussion this week,” Clarus says as soon as Gladio is settled, “regarding the next stage of your Shield training.”

Gladiolus keeps his expression and his hands still. 

“When my schedule permits, you will train with me. When it does not, Mr. Scientia has volunteered to take my place.”

“Sir. He hasn’t even finished his own Crownsguard training.”

Ignis laces his fingers together across his knee but says nothing. 

“I made the same objection to His Majesty. However, the king impressed upon me that Prince Noctis would only benefit from two retainers with this sort of training.”

Gladio knows his father’s temperament well enough to read between the lines:  _ we fought, and Regis won. _

Just how bad had that fight gotten, for his father to fold on this point? The Amicitias may not be royalty, but they have traditions, not quite sacred, of their own. It is the duty of the King’s Shield to train the heir’s. It isn’t a duty that is to be foisted off on anyone else, no matter how difficult it is. They are a family forged in blood and the willingness to sacrifice  _ everything.  _

Their children. Their parents. Themselves. 

Gladiolus is prepared to face his father in the training grounds. He’s known it would happen since he first began his own training to be Noct’s protector. He never thought he would fight his friend. 

(The only day he has truly thought to dread is when Iris is old enough to undertake the same training, when he and his father will take turns teaching her how to die and learning what kind of killer she will be.)

But his father has made the point to say that Ignis  _ volunteered.  _ Not  _ has been assigned _ or even a neutral  _ will _ . How that fits into Clarus’s fight with the king does not matter, because Gladio also knows that if he tries to push back again, not only will it not do any good, it will offend Ignis if Gladio implies he does not believe him capable of making such a choice.

So Gladiolus nods, murmurs  _ yes, sir, _ and waits. 

Clarus looks to Ignis when it becomes clear that Gladio will make no more objections. “Mr. Scientia, I will reinforce the point: this is voluntary for you. If at any time you no longer wish to participate, you will be released, no questions asked. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

Clarus nods once, accepting the answer. “Then we’ll move on to the rules. First, you are never to fight each other outside the training grounds at the Citadel.”

That one is simple. They’ve never sparred against each other outside the Citadel before, so it will be easy enough to continue not doing it. They don’t often train with one another anyway; their schedules rarely line up, and it has only been in the last year and a half that Ignis even began his Crownsguard training. 

“Second, you are never to train without a supervisor.”

Gladio frowns at that—they don’t need a babysitter or a referee—and then realizes that there is a possibility, however slim, of them each striking a fatal blow at the same or nearly same time. A third party would be necessary, in case neither of them could administer a phoenix down. The thought curls up, tight and hard, in his stomach. 

“Third, you are to each have a phoenix down on your person whenever you train. Keeping them in the Armiger is not acceptable.”

That one is aimed at Gladio. Ignis doesn’t have access yet, since he isn’t sworn in to the Crownsguard, but Gladio knows—in theory—that it can be difficult to pull what you want, what you need, from it when emotions are running too high. It hasn’t happened to him yet, and he hopes it never does.

“Finally, the moment violence between you spills outside the training grounds, this will end. Understood?”

Gladiolus and Ignis give their  _ yes, sir _ s in unison, though Gladio is unsettled by the idea of ever  _ wanting _ to hurt Ignis. Ignis can be a stick-in-the-mud sometimes, but all of their fights have stayed verbal. He can’t remember a time where he menaced Ignis for anything but show. He doesn’t like the implication that his father thinks him capable of that—or Ignis, either. 

Clarus dismisses them both, and Gladio finds himself walking with Ignis down the hallway. Neither of them say anything until Ignis hits the button to call the elevator. 

The question slips out quietly, and Gladio knows it is the only time he will ever ask. “Are you sure?”

The calm look Ignis gives him almost makes it easy to forget that he’s a year younger. “Gladiolus. I am not so fragile that you can break me.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says and claps his hand on Ignis’s shoulder. 

* * *

That night after Iris goes to bed, Gladiolus meets his father at the training grounds on the family estate. Jared is their supervisor, and Clarus gives the signal to begin their first, true fight. 

Gladio lasts thirty-seven seconds before his father runs him through. 

He gasps back to life with his father standing over him. Clarus offers him a hand, and Gladio lets him pull him to his feet. His shirt is soaked with blood, and his heartbeat stutters like there is still steel lodged inside him. 

Jared hoses the blood off the flagstones so well that there is no trace of it in the morning. Gladio’s hand keeps drifting to his chest in search of the hole that isn’t there. 

* * *

It is disconcerting, how quickly a fight, a life, can be over. Gladiolus battles his father repeatedly over the course of the next two weeks, either at home or in a private training room in the Citadel, and he dies and he dies and he dies. 

Once he is back on his feet, his father breaks down what went wrong, how he slipped past Gladio’s guard, made an opening, and—above all—never hesitated to strike the killing blow.

Gladio has almost an entire lifetime of specialized training; Clarus has lived more than twice as long and survived the Great War. It is humbling to be reminded with every bloody, choking breath of resurrection that he still has so much to learn if he is ever going to be as good a Shield as his father.

He claws his way closer to the minute mark and dreams of steel sliding beneath his sternum.

* * *

Two days before the festival, Gladio enters the private training room at the Citadel and immediately spots Ignis working his way through a stretching routine. He is wearing black sweatpants and tank top similar to what Gladio has on, both cut close to his body, and he nods in acknowledgement to Gladio but continues his warm up. 

Gladio nods back and tries to ignore the way surprise twists through his gut. His father hadn’t said anything about not being able to make it. 

Monica Elshett is also in the room, and after he salutes her, she offers him a small smile. “Your father sends his apologies.”

“That’s all right,” Gladio tells her, and he looks to Ignis and hopes he projects more confidence than he feels. “It’ll be good to have a fair fight for once.”

“You had best re-evaluate your expectations. I intend to win.” Ignis says this all without ever pausing his warm up or even glancing in his direction. 

The ready, easy response actually makes Gladio grin. “We’ll see about that.”

Monica puts them through their paces, overseeing their drills and calling out corrections as necessary. Most of her words are directed at Ignis, both because he is less experienced and because she is far more familiar with a polearm than she is a greatsword. That doesn’t stop her from noticing when Gladio’s footwork gets sloppy, and he runs the form again, taking better care to keep his weight on the balls of his feet instead of in his heels. It feels so much like a regular training session that, for a little while, Gladio lets himself forget why they’re all here in favor of just focusing on how his body moves and the satisfaction of getting it right. 

Sweat is beading at his hairline and between his shoulder blades when Monica finally calls a halt to their drills. “Do you each have a phoenix down?”

Gladio dismisses his broadsword so he can pull the feather from the left pocket of his sweatpants and hold it out for both her and Ignis to see. It is the same one his father gave him their first fight, slightly rumpled from the many times it has been shoved in his pocket and gone unused, but still serviceable. Ignis shows her his feather and then readies his lance when she nods.

“Mr. Scientia, you may yield at any time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Gladiolus summons his greatsword again, and Monica signals the start of their fight.

Ignis, to his credit, is truthful about his intent to win. He lunges forward, jabbing his lance straight at Gladio’s torso. Gladio parries with his sword, twists out of the way of the follow up when momentum carries his weapon too far off center to get it around in time to block a second time, and swings back around with that same momentum behind the blow.

Between the two of them, Ignis is more maneuverable, but Gladio has the advantage in stamina and sheer strength. Gladio can keep his footing when he blocks; Ignis is more often than not forced to step back or to the side to stay standing. And Gladio, when he needs to, can vanish his weapon, throw himself out of the way, reposition his hands and feet, and summon his sword back exactly where it needs to be.

It is not as unevenly matched a fight as the ones between him and his father, but Gladio drives Ignis back across the training room with what feels like a surprising amount of ease. The battles between him and Clarus are over so quickly, each one such a desperate, adrenaline-filled scream of  _ stay alive _ that Gladio does most of his thinking once it’s over. Clarus gives him almost no time to plan; Ignis gives just enough.

Ignis has a good amount of environmental awareness, even when he’s breathing hard and sweat trickles down his forehead and into his eyes. He doesn’t have to glance behind him to know he’s close to being trapped against the far wall, the worst possible positioning for someone whose skills are so acrobatic. So Ignis plants his lance to the ground and vaults over Gladio in a bid to get himself more space. 

But Gladio is ready for the move. He ducks low and spins, swiping his sword up in an arc across the path he thinks Ignis is most likely to take. The sword connects, the sharp edge biting into flesh, and Ignis fumbles his landing but manages to turn back around. 

For a second, Gladio nearly banishes his sword—until his father, any sparring was stopped at first blood, and he has yet to bloody Clarus. His sword caught Ignis across the right bicep and dug into the side of his chest, and blood streams from the wounds, down his forearm and soaking into his tank top. 

Ignis’s eyes are wide in pain and something uncomfortably close to fear, and in the space between heartbeats, Gladiolus thinks that he is about to yield. Ignis raises his lance back into a defensive position instead.

He can’t keep it there for long. Gladio’s sword must have gone deep, because three more strikes is enough to knock the lance from Ignis’s weakened grip, and Gladio—

Gladiolus immediately follows through, just the way his father showed him. 

His sword plunges into Ignis’s chest with enough force the impact echoes up his arms. For one terrible moment, Gladio freezes in surprise and horror. Ignis is frozen, too, pinned between staggering back and collapse, until Gladio yanks the weapon free in a spray of blood.

Ignis drops to the ground, and Gladio knows Ignis is dead by the way he fails to brace himself for the fall.

Gladio drops his sword, still bloody, back into the Armiger and crashes to his knees next to Ignis. He scrabbles for the phoenix down in his pocket; his fingers curl around it. Gladio rolls Ignis onto his back before he slams the feather to Ignis’s ruined chest.

Ignis’s face has gone white and slack, his glasses askew and splattered with his own blood. Then the magic courses through him, and he arches under Gladio’s hand, gasping and sputtering and flinching away.

Gladio pulls his hand back and watches Ignis slowly return to life. 

The brush of Monica’s fingers between his shoulders reminds Gladiolus that he needs to not be an ass right now. He climbs back to his feet and, once Ignis’s breathing is mostly steady and he’s no longer caught in the panic of dying, offers him a hand up. Ignis takes it readily enough, though he is unsteady on his feet.

“I’m fine,” he says before Gladio can ask, and Gladio has to admire Ignis’s ability to lie in a moment like this. He doesn’t let go of Ignis’s hand until he stops swaying. “That was—peculiar.”

Gladio snorts at that description and immediately feels guilty for it, but Ignis is too focused on finding a not-bloody section of his tank top to clean his glasses with to make a biting comment. 

Monica steps forward with a handkerchief, which Ignis takes immediately. “You both did well today. Mr. Scientia, you’re free to go get cleaned up. I’ll review your performance with you tomorrow. Mr. Amicitia, do your cool down routine, and then see to the room and your sword. Once you’ve cleaned up, report to my office, and we’ll go over your performance.”

Monica leaves after their chorus of  _ yes, ma’am _ , and the silence left in her wake is thick enough to be uncomfortable. Gladio finds himself studying Ignis, his eyes drawn to the two gashes through his tank top and the bloodstained skin peeking out from underneath. As quickly as he administered the phoenix down, Ignis shouldn’t scar, but the fact he can’t be  _ sure _ about that bothers him more than it should. 

Ignis catches him looking. “Something you want to say?” he asks as he puts his glasses back on. 

There is a hint of a challenge there, enough that Gladio knows he definitely shouldn’t ask if Ignis is okay. So he shrugs instead. “Just—thanks, Iggy. For doing this for me.”

Surprise flickers across Ignis’s face, and while he doesn’t smile, his expression settles into something slightly more relaxed. “It isn’t just for you. But you’re welcome, Gladio.”

* * *

Gladio sprays down the training room and lets Ignis’s blood disappear down the drain built into the floor. He tries not to remember how much force it took to drive his sword into Ignis’s chest, but the memory sinks into his muscles like his father’s sword through his heart.


	2. Autumn II, M.E. 751

The autumn festival goes smoothly, though Gladiolus is relieved he only has to follow at a distance and watch for threats during the celebration. Ignis is the one who has to ensure that Noctis behaves despite his boredom and doesn’t accidentally insult the Astrals by fucking up his portion of the ceremony. If Noctis gets any of it wrong, it isn’t bad enough to earn himself a bolt of Ramuh’s lightning, so that is really all that matters.

Most days, Gladio sees Noctis either in his school uniform or his training clothes, so it is weird to see him dressed up in more princely attire at his father’s side. It makes him a sharp counterpoint to King Regis: youth to maturity, inexperience to majesty, potential to a slow decline.

(Clarus hovers closer to the king than normal, almost as if he expects the king might stumble. Gladio doesn’t notice any unsteadiness in the king’s gait or his hands, but he is also focused on Noctis for the evening.)

Every now and then, when he is scanning the crowd, Gladio thinks he catches Ignis studying him. He waits for some kind of signal, some motion to indicate that there’s something Ignis wants to draw his attention to, but it only lasts a few seconds before Ignis looks elsewhere or resumes helping Noctis make his diplomatic rounds. 

If he’s honest, he isn’t exactly sure what to say to Ignis anyway after he stabbed him through the chest. It just—it’s a different kind of not talking about it than with his father. A less comfortable one. He knows where he stands with Clarus in this training, but Ignis is a different matter.

Gladio shrugs those thoughts off and focuses on his work. He’ll figure it out some other time if it doesn’t go away on its own. 

* * *

The next week, Gladiolus arrives at the private training room, and once again Ignis and Monica are inside. Monica isn’t unexpected—either she or Dustin is always there when he fights his father in the Citadel—but Ignis is an almost, not-quite surprise, if only because Gladio didn’t get a heads up again. 

Gladio salutes Monica, tosses Ignis a  _ hey _ , and joins him in stretching. Ignis is in a white tank top, though he’s wearing the same, or nearly the same, black sweatpants as the last time. Gladio briefly wonders if Ignis mended or is planning to mend the first tank top or if he threw it out. With two wide cuts in it, it might not be worth the effort.

Ignis is quiet, focused, calm. This is the kind of silence that feels closer to normal, though part of Gladio can’t relax. He had planned on his father killing him again like most days, and now the question of who is going to die is less certain. Gladio brings his right arm across his chest and holds it in place with his left until he gets a good stretch in his shoulder. It doesn’t quite get rid of the memory of his sword slicing through Ignis’s chest, but it makes it easier for the sensation to slip away afterwards.

Once they’ve stretched, Monica oversees their drills. Ignis has a different polearm this time—a halberd of some kind, with a wicked axe blade, a sturdy hook, and a long, almost graceful spike—and Gladio immediately notices that Ignis does several drills that require vaults similar to the one he attempted in their last training session. He must have practiced because he gets much higher into the air than he did before, and Gladio doubts he will be able to catch Ignis that way again. Not without correcting for the difference, at least.

Monica doesn’t stop their drills until they’re both sweating. Ignis is breathing deep and slow despite the tinge of red in his cheeks, and Gladio wipes the sweat from his face with the collar of his tank top. When Monica asks, they both show her the phoenix downs they shoved in their pockets, and Ignis acknowledges her reminder that he can yield whenever he likes. 

She signals their start, and Ignis does not yield.

He also doesn’t go for the first strike. Ignis settles into a defensive stance, one carefully calibrated to keep as many of his options open as possible. The halberd he has is lighter and longer than the lance from last time, so while it will be more difficult for him to block, he still has the advantage of speed and now has the advantage of reach. Gladio will have to get inside Ignis’s guard if he is going to win.

Gladio feints with his greatsword, and Ignis sidesteps the true, followup strike with careful footwork and a vicious slash that nearly catches Gladio’s arm. He gets his sword up in time to block it, but Ignis twists the halberd in his hand. The hook at the back of the axe blade catches on the edge of Gladio’s sword, and Ignis  _ pulls. _

If Ignis were sparring against someone without access to the Armiger, it would be an excellent maneuver. As it is, when Gladio feels his sword getting yanked from his grasp, he dismisses it, leaps back out of range, and summons it again. The weapon’s sudden disappearance throws Ignis off balance, his halberd going wide, and Gladio lunges forward to take advantage of the opening.

He’s not fast enough. Ignis dives out of the way and rolls to his feet with the halberd in both hands. For a split second, something like satisfaction crosses Ignis’s face, and Gladio—

Forgets, for a heartbeat, that one of them is going to die, and he grins. 

Ignis doesn’t roll his eyes, but it feels like a near thing, and for the first time since Gladio cut him down, the awkwardness between them vanishes.

The moment doesn’t last. Ignis goes on the offensive now, and his flurry of lightning-quick strikes pushes Gladio back across the training room floor to keep from getting skewered. It’s clear that Ignis is trying to back him into a corner. If Gladio lets that happen, he’ll be hard-pressed to escape. Even if he were prone to leaping over his opponents, the halberd is long enough Ignis could probably get him with it anyway. 

Gladio dodges a slash from the blade, but instead of twisting out of the way from the following lunge, he plucks a shield from the Armiger and angles it so that when the spike hits, it knocks the halberd to the side and leaves Ignis open for just a moment. Gladio throws himself forward, and Ignis—

Ignis doesn’t dodge fast enough this time to clear the strike completely. The sword that Gladio aims for his chest catches him in the side of the neck in a sudden spray of blood. 

Blood gushes from the wound. Ignis makes a choking noise and drops the halberd. His fingers scrabble to stem the flow, but the blood pulses out of him with every beat of his heart, spilling past his hands and drenching his clothes. 

Ignis staggers as the color drains from his face, and then he falls. 

The sound of Ignis hitting the ground jolts Gladio out of his horror. He dismisses his weapons and kneels in the spreading pool of Ignis’s blood so he can turn Ignis onto his back. 

He thought, last time, that Ignis had gone white, but the awful pallor of Ignis’s skin now is no comparison. His eyes are wide and vacant behind his glasses. Blood is everywhere—his hair, his glasses, his jaw, his shoulder, his chest, Gladio’s hands—hot and wet, and the smell of it makes Gladio’s stomach roil. 

Gladio grabs his phoenix down and slams it into Ignis’s chest. 

The magic courses through Ignis, and he arches under Gladio’s hand. He gasps, chokes as the magic repairs his ruined neck, and then he rolls onto his side to dry heave until the magic finishes running its course. 

Gladio stays kneeling in his blood until Ignis pushes himself up to sitting. He nearly asks if Ignis is all right, but something in the set of Ignis’s shoulders and his dazed expression makes him swallow his concern. After a few more silent seconds, Gladio climbs to his feet and offers Ignis his hand. 

Ignis slowly focuses on his blood smeared over Gladio’s skin, and in the end, he lets Gladio help him back to his feet. 

* * *

Gladio scrubs his hands as meticulously as he hoses down the training room floor.

* * *

“Gladdy!”

Iris’s voice pulls him to the present. Gladio looks up from the book he has been trying to read for the last half hour and sees her and tiny Talcott standing in front of him. Talcott is clutching a picture book to his chest but holds it out when he realizes that Gladio is finally paying attention.

“Talcott wants a story,” Iris says, “but I can’t do the voices like you can.”

Talcott nods as solemnly as only a two-year-old can.

Gladio smiles and sets his book aside in favor of Talcott’s. It’s one of his favorites, about a little cactuar being raised by a flock of chocobos. “All right, get up here. I’ll read to you.”

Talcott immediately climbs up on the couch and into his lap. Iris sits beside him, curling up close so she can see. 

By the time he’s done with the book and Iris is off to pick another, Jared has slipped into the living room. He brings a laundry basket filled with Gladio’s tank tops and mends them while Gladio reads aloud. 

* * *

Clarus pulls him back to his feet and lets Gladio take a few moments to catch his breath again. Gladio tugs at his shirt, grimacing at the feel of the blood-soaked fabric peeling off his skin. His father is nothing if not precise—coming back to himself and finding that warm, bloody patch beneath his sternum is almost familiar. 

Comforting. 

Against his father, he expects that split-second, bone-deep horror that cuts to a shock of magic and gasping as he resurfaces. It is over and undone by the time he realizes his heart is beating again. Clarus doesn’t fuck up his strikes and leave him to fountain blood from his neck. 

(Ignis locked eyes with him right before he fell. His eyes were a brilliant, terrified green.)

“Forty-three seconds,” Jared calls from the sidelines before he grabs the hose. 

Clarus claps a hand on Gladio’s shoulder. “You’re doing well.”

“Right.” He laughs at himself and the faint smirk his father gives him. “Six more seconds. You must be so proud.”

“I am.”

It sounds so sincere that Gladio turns to get a better look at his father’s face. 

“You’ve endured the last month in a manner befitting our family,” Clarus says. His words are serious, measured, like they would be if they were in his office at the Citadel. His expression is more guarded, but there is honesty in the lines of his face. “I am proud of you, Gladiolus.”

Gladio swallows hard, past the lump he doesn’t know how to articulate. “Thank you,” is all he manages to say.

Clarus nods, accepting the gratitude, and then he changes the topic to their fight. Jared starts spraying down the flagstones while Clarus goes blow by blow and helps Gladio understand what went wrong and how to counter in the future. For all his father kills him every time, Gladio has never allowed him to do it the exact same way twice.

Every second Gladio survives is another second Noctis has to live in a real fight. Those six seconds are hard-won and worth every agony of dying.

“I’ve spoken with Monica and with Ignis about Ignis’s sessions with you,” Clarus says once the instruction is over and they’ve finished their cool-down routine together. 

Technically, Gladio doesn’t need to cool down since the phoenix down restored him completely, but it’s a chance to spend more time with his father and to settle his thoughts and heart. Not tonight, it seems. His father’s words make something twist inside Gladio. He breathes through it and waits for his father to continue.

“Beyond your physical performance, Monica was impressed with the level-headedness you showed after you killed Ignis. While she noticed some surprise from you, you didn’t panic or need to be reminded to help him. Staying calm when an ally goes down is an important skill to have.”

It is uncomfortable to be praised for bringing Ignis back to life when he’s the one who cut him down in the first place. But Gladio knows that his father has a point—not everyone can force themselves to act when a nightmare is playing out before their eyes. It’s better they know now that Gladio isn’t prone to dramatics when his friend is bleeding out than for him to be surprised when it happens outside the training grounds.

“And what did Ignis say?” The question slips out, and Gladio hopes it sounds less off-kilter to his father than it does to his own ears.

“I offered him another chance to back out, but he assured me that he intended to continue for as long as it was necessary.” Clarus pauses there, though if he’s studying Gladio or the memory of Ignis, Gladio can’t tell. “Once he can sort out his schedule, you’ll be facing him once a week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like my notes for this story are mostly just gruesome ways to die.


	3. Autumn III, M.E. 751

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a lot of gore in this chapter. Please reread the tags on this story. It is rated Mature for violence, not relationship stuff.

By their eighth fight, Gladiolus knows what to expect from Ignis. They are not as unevenly matched as Gladio is with his father, but their skills are not on the same level. It’s no slight to Ignis, who is clever and quick and will undoubtedly be a masterful Hand someday, but it is a reflection of the differences in their upbringing.

Gladio’s entire life revolves around gaining the skills he needs to physically protect Noctis. His own combat skills are the foundation, and everything else branches from there: survival skills, for the day when Noctis will journey beyond the Wall to acquire the Royal Arms for himself; crowd control, escape, and evasion tactics for public functions and defense against assassination and kidnapping attempts; how to form, train, and lead a small combat unit; the basics of spycraft, so he knows how to identify, misguide, or eliminate a traitor; and now that he is officially Crownsguard, the beginnings of larger-scale warfare so that he will be able to serve as a general, if necessary.

But Ignis must learn so much more. He attends meetings for various councils and creates reports for Noctis (who doesn’t always read them); he gets far more in-depth lessons on spycraft from the intelligence division of the Crownsguard; he gets tutoring in tactics and history and trade and politics and law and court customs so that he either has or knows who has any relevant information a prince could need at a moment’s notice; and he manages Noct’s life outside the Citadel, everything from making sure the prince has clean clothes to ensuring he gets out of bed on time. It is a wonder Ignis can fit in any combat training at all, much less that he plans to take and pass the final Crownsguard exams after his eighteenth birthday.

Gladio has no doubt that Ignis will be his match someday. But that day is not now, and right now Gladio is not good enough to give Ignis the same mercy his father gives him: a fast, clean death.

He puts too much force behind his parry, which knocks Ignis’s much lighter spear aside, and counteracting that momentum makes Gladio’s own follow-up too slow and off angle. That is enough for Ignis to start pulling back but not enough to actually get him out of range. The slash is supposed to slice deep under Ignis’s ribs and up through his heart. It catches him low across his stomach instead, and when Gladio pulls his word free, the tip, an entire palm’s length, is red and something darker.

The sound that Ignis makes is strangled thing between a scream and a groan. Blood spills down his pelvis and thighs and cascades onto the floor like a bucket overturned. The spear clatters to the ground, and Ignis clutches his wound as if that can keep the rest of his blood inside him.

(As if that can keep the rest of him inside.)

Ignis curls in over himself as more—as more slips between his hands. He pitches forward. 

Gladio is there to catch him, his sword vanishing as he lunges with arms braced to keep Ignis from hitting the ground. Blood soaks his sweatpants, splashes his boots, drenches his hands and forearms. It’s hot and sticky and foul on a level that makes his skin crawl. 

He lowers Ignis onto his back despite the awful sound that motion wrenches from Ignis’s throat, but at least the change in position slows the rush pouring from his body. Gladio’s breath comes in harsh pants through his mouth because the smell is strong enough he doesn’t want to risk gagging. 

Ignis shudders on the training room floor in a pool of his own blood, his hands weakly grasping toward the gaping, oozing wound in his stomach. Gladio grabs him by the wrists to keep him still and swallows hard when he finally gets a close-up look at what his sword left behind. He can see the details clearly, but his mind keeps tripping up on the connections, that the horrific mess he’s seeing is Ignis. That the ragged, desperate moans filling the air are coming from his bloodless lips, that the uncontrollable shaking is from his confident, elegant hands.

That it’s his fault Ignis is like this because he’s still not good enough to do it right.

Gladio grips both of Ignis’s wrists in one hand so he can fumble for the phoenix down in his pocket. He’s done it seven times already, but today it’s like his body doesn’t remember what to do. “Just—hang on,” he tells his friend. “You’ll be good in a second.”

“Mr. Amicitia.”

Gladio startles, the phoenix down between his bloody, sticky fingers, and turns to look at Monica, who is still at the edge of the training room. He knows exactly what she is about to say when he registers the pity in her eyes, and for a brief, sharp moment, he hates himself for needing to be reminded.

“Mr. Scientia has experienced neither cardiac nor respiratory arrest.”

And a phoenix down is nothing but a pretty feather until both conditions have been met. Gladio can kneel next to Ignis and hold his trembling wrists until his whimpers stop and he bleeds out, or he can show the one small mercy he can’t fuck up.

He sets the phoenix down on his thigh, out of the worst of the blood, and reaches for the spot in the Armiger where he keeps the hunting knife his father gave him for his first survival lessons. It doesn’t materialize, not until the third time that Gladio makes a desperate mental grab for it. He grips the hilt tight enough his hand shakes, not wanting to risk it disappearing in a burst of magic and light without his say-so.

He looks down, and Ignis is looking up at him through wet, glassy eyes. Ignis keeps as still as he can despite his shuddering when Gladio raises the knife and drives it through his heart.

* * *

It takes a long time to for Gladiolus to clean up the training room, so it is a surprise when he steps into the nearest locker room and Ignis is there, sitting on the bench and facing the door, like he has been waiting for him to come in. Their paths have never crossed in here before. Gladio pauses as the door swings shut behind him, and Ignis climbs to his feet.

He looks perfectly composed, though his hair is still a little damp from his shower. He is back in his day clothes—white shirt, black vest, dark slacks, dress shoes—and put together so perfectly that Gladio is keenly aware of how much of Ignis’s blood is still on his skin. 

They stare at one another, and Gladio wishes he knew what was going on behind the carefully cultivated expression Ignis is wearing. He wonders if Ignis can identify the guilty rhythm of his heartbeat or if he somehow knows just how many times he used that hunting knife to gut and clean small game. 

But Ignis says nothing, and Gladio doesn’t know if Ignis’s silence is some kind of maneuver or if words have actually failed him for the first time Gladio knows of. Those are games Gladio has the skills to participate in but doesn’t often like to play, and the more seconds tick by, the more Gladio has to fight down the urge to start clawing the bloodstains off his skin. “Ignis. I—”

“Don’t apologize.” Ignis’s voice is as sharp as it is certain, but Gladio can’t relax. He knows that sharpness intimately, knows just how brittle it is beneath the surface. “You needn’t worry. You will not break me, Gladiolus.”

_ I am not so fragile that you can break me. _

(Gladio knows he will spend too much time before their next session pondering the nuances between  _ can _ and  _ will _ and what it means that Ignis has switched to the latter.)

But it is obvious enough to him what Ignis is looking for, so Gladio decides the best apology he can manage is to give it to him. He drops his shoulders and loosens his jaw so that he can give his most convincing imitation of a casual shrug. “Don’t need you to tell me that. You did good today. If I don’t up my game fast, you’ll wipe the floor with me.”

“You’d do well to keep that in mind.”

Gladio grins and tries to ignore the twisting in his chest and the memory of how the life faded from Ignis’s eyes. “Promise, Iggy.”

* * *

Gladiolus dreads Thursday afternoons, that small slice of space between an agricultural council meeting and when Ignis heads to Noct’s apartment to check up on him after school. His fights with Ignis are different from the ones he has with his father. Clarus teaches him; every time Gladio dies, he learns something about what he did wrong, how to fix a miscalculation, how to parry a move he’s never seen before, how to defend against a stronger, smarter foe. His father teaches him, not just how to fight, but how to scratch out the seconds of survival, how to stand his ground until the end, how to not flinch when steel pierces his chest.

Gladio has no idea what he could be teaching Ignis, other than how to be slaughtered. Monica handles all of Ignis’s debriefs, and she’s the better one to do it, with their similar fighting styles. He is just the obstacle that Ignis shreds himself on, and after gutting him, Gladio knows he can’t even manage to give Ignis some kind of dignity as repayment for his efforts.

It takes a moment for Gladio to identify the weapon Ignis has during warmups: a pollaxe. It has an axe head and spike like a halberd, but instead of a hook, it has a hammer on the reverse. The pollaxe is shorter than a halberd as well, but what it loses in reach it makes up for with another spike at the butt end of the haft. The weapon indicates a change in fighting strategy from Ignis today, and that—Gladio isn’t sure why, but knowing that makes it almost feel like he’s cheating. It didn’t before, but it does today.

So instead of running generic drills with a greatsword, Gladio reaches into the Armiger and calls forth a one-handed sword and a round shield, its diameter only a little wider than the length of his forearm. If Ignis can’t hide his weapon, can’t mask his strategy, then Gladio can at least give him the courtesy of putting his on display as well. 

Monica eventually calls an end to their drills, reminds Ignis that he can yield, and has them both display their phoenix downs before she signals that they can start.

These fights against Ignis have a rhythm all their own. This time, Ignis strikes first, a low lunge that forces Gladio to use his sword to parry or else get a spike through his thigh. It leaves Ignis open for a second, and Gladio brings the point of his sword back up and aims for Ignis’s chest, only for Ignis to switch his grip on the pollaxe so he can block Gladio’s upward strike with the metal-reinforced haft. 

Gladio realizes the danger a heartbeat too late and draws back, but not fast enough. Ignis twists the pollaxe between his hands again, and Gladio’s sword goes flying from his grasp. Before the sword even hits the training room floor, Ignis is pressing his advantage. He brings the hammer edge of the pollaxe around in a strike aimed for Gladio’s ribs, but Gladio brings his shield up in time to block. 

The impact reverberates up his arm, into his shoulder and down his side. Gladio knocks the pollaxe wide and resummons his sword in time to catch the spike from the other end of the weapon. He shoves against the pollaxe with both his sword and his shield, forcing Ignis back for a moment and breaking their engagement. 

If Ignis were faster, he could have broken some of Gladio’s ribs, or even his arm, with the hammer. The way Ignis watches Gladio makes it clear that Ignis is also aware of that. It’s the closest that Ignis has come to wounding him, and Gladio is torn between pride and the determination not to let it happen again.

He throws everything into getting inside Ignis’s guard. The dual ends of the pollaxe make the weapon great for offense at mid range, but at close range, its length means that Ignis will be limited to mostly blocking with the haft unless he can create distance. The lighter sword will be at an advantage then, provided Ignis doesn’t knock it from his hand again. 

Gladio aims for Ignis’s center, his lunges and slashes designed to keep him on defense, and uses his shield to deflect Ignis’s counterstrikes. But Ignis largely keeps pace with his own blocking, so there is sweat beading along Gladio’s hairline by the time he finds his first opening: Ignis’s arms are tiring. 

The pollaxe is lower than it ought to be for a neutral guard, so Gladio aims a strike for Ignis’s heart. Ignis brings the pollaxe up a little too slowly, and Gladio realizes in the second before contact that the block will be enough to prevent a kill—

( _ blood pulses out of him with every beat of his heart, spilling past his hands _ )

—and twists his sword at the last heartbeat, changing the angle. It slices partially through the right strap of Ignis’s tank top, above his collarbone and into the meat of his shoulder. The wound starts bleeding immediately, but it is shallow enough that it isn’t immediately disabling. Ignis takes advantage of Gladio’s relief to slam the haft of his pollaxe against Gladio’s chest and force him back out of close range. 

It knocks the breath from Gladio for a second, and Ignis, despite the blood soaking his tank top or the pain he must be feeling, does not let the opportunity go to waste. He aims a flurry of strikes at Gladio, and Gladio retreats from them, blocking and parrying, waiting for the wound to take its toll on Ignis enough that he can find an unambiguous opening.

_ There.  _

Gladio lunges forward, but Ignis is ready for the move, and Gladio realizes too late it was intentional. The pollaxe slams in to the back of his forearm; Gladio drops his sword. Ignis turns the pollaxe in his grip, but Gladio doesn’t try to dodge or to halt his momentum. Before Ignis can get one of the pointy ends of the pollaxe into his chest, Gladio brings his shield between them and slams straight into Ignis.

They both go down in a tangle of limbs and steel. Ignis lands on his back and struggles beneath him, trying to shove him off or to get the pollaxe into a useful position. Gladio dismisses his shield so he can grab the haft between Ignis’s hands and uses his weight to shove the weapon down, trapping it against Ignis’s chest. He draws his other hand back and reaches for his connection to the Armiger for the sword—

_ (blood spills down his pelvis and thighs and cascades onto the floor like a bucket overturned) _

—but it doesn’t materialize in his hands.

Ignis stares up at him; Gladio stares back. 

Then Ignis  _ shifts _ beneath him, and suddenly Gladio hits the floor. He rolls instinctively out of reach, and this time his sword and his shield leap to his hands in a shattering of crystal. Gladio spins around to face Ignis, and the fury he finds in Ignis’s expression has him falling into a defensive stance immediately. 

He has never seen Ignis angry like this before: eyes narrowed, jaw clenched tight, fingers white-knuckled around the pollaxe. Ignis looks like he is ready to run him through with one of the spikes. Possibly his bare hands.

Ignis draws himself up and then slams the butt of the pollaxe against the training room floor. His voice is colder than the approaching winter when he announces, “I yield.”


	4. Autumn IV–Winter, M.E. 751

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [ienablu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu) for a discussion of Clarus’s rank and to [marmolita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmolita/pseuds/marmolita) for nudging me toward Noctis.

“Forfeit accepted,” Monica says, as calmly as if she were expecting this to happen. A potion shimmers into existence in her hand.

Ignis tries to school his expression, but he can’t smother all of his fury by the time he turns away from Gladiolus. He goes to Monica and exchanges his pollaxe for the potion with clipped thanks. Monica sets the pollaxe back on the weapons rack while Ignis breaks the potion over his shoulder. The bleeding slows, then stops, and Ignis rolls out his arm to ensure that was all he needed.

Gladio realizes he is still staring, still armed, and he hastily dismisses his sword and shield. An apology tries to escape from his mouth, but he isn’t even sure what he would be apologizing  _ for _ . And based on the way that Ignis is steadfastly refusing to look at him, the last thing that Ignis is looking for is a weak  _ sorry. _

How fucking stupid would that be? To apologize for not killing him when Ignis was trapped beneath him and at his mercy? The thought makes bile rise in Gladio’s throat. There’s no way that he could phrase that where Ignis would interpret it as something  _ not _ sarcastic. 

“Mr. Scientia, you are free to go. We will discuss this at our normal time tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ignis says. His voice is still clipped, his spine rigid, but he manages to salute her before escaping the training room.

Gladio watches him go and tries to ignore the feeling that he has somehow fucked this up worse than their last session.

“Mr. Amicitia.”

Gladiolus wrenches his attention from Ignis’s retreating back and focuses on Monica. The clang of the door closing echoes loudly through the training room.

But Monica doesn’t continue right away, and Gladio forces himself to stand tall and still before her because that is the closest he can come to mimicking some kind of control. He remembers Clarus saying that Monica was impressed with him. Every second of her cool, assessing gaze convinces him a little more that he is losing that regard.

“Did you pull your strike?”

Gladio does not flinch. “Yes, ma’am.” He wonders just how much detail she gives Clarus about his fights with Ignis and decides it won’t matter. It was not a mistake on his end, like the second time Ignis disarmed him, when he fell for an opening that looked too good. Pulling that hit was Gladio  _ choosing _ not to take an advantage. Had he kept his resolve, Ignis may not have been able to set up that trap afterwards. 

He had the chance to strike what could have been a disabling blow, and he did not take it.

Monica’s expression does not change at his admission. “Very well, then. Mr. Amicitia, your cool down routine, and then take care of the room and your sword. I’ll be waiting for you in my office to go over your performance in depth.”

That is always how she winds up these sessions, yet Gladio cannot help the feeling of dread that settles in his chest. He salutes her, watches her go, and then does as he is told.

There is very little blood on the training room or his sword today, so the cleanup doesn't take long. He is briefly tempted to linger here, to avoid a repeat of the confrontation he and Ignis had in the locker room last week, but Gladiolus has had enough of his own cowardice and indecision for one day. If Ignis means to tear him to pieces, he will face it head on.

But Ignis isn’t in the locker room. There isn’t even any fog on the mirrors by the time he gets there, no lingering humidity from the showers in the air. If it weren’t for the faintest trace of blood in one of the sinks, Gladio would have thought Ignis was never in here at all.

* * *

Monica’s office feels smaller than it really is because of all of the bookshelves and filing cabinets that line the walls. But instead of having him stand in front of her desk like normal when she gives him feedback on his performance, she motions for him to follow her to the sitting area across from her desk. That in itself is enough for dread to well up inside him—either she anticipates that this discussion will take much longer than normal, or she believes something more intimate than providing routine feedback to a subordinate is necessary.

There is a small, round table with four matching wooden chairs and Monica takes the seat that puts her back to the nearest bookshelf; he picks the one directly across from her so his back is to the middle of the room. 

“Before I discuss today’s session with Lord Amicitia—” Gladio appreciates that she does not refer to Clarus as his father when they’re talking in an official capacity “—I would like some things clarified. Why did you pull your strike?”

Gladio knows that if he is careful, cautious with his words, he can downplay what happened. That is what he  _ ought _ to do, but this isn’t the kind of game he wants to play right now. He’s better at owning up to his shit than trying to cover it up. “I realized that Scientia would be able to partially block my attack and that it would not be a killing blow.”

“Why should that matter?”

“He’s my friend,” Gladio says immediately, and this time he  _ does _ flinch.

“For the purposes of the exercise, he was not. This wasn’t a problem for you previously. Why now?”

Gladiolus keeps his hands flat on his knees, under the table. He tries not to tense up because his right arm already aches where Ignis slammed the pollaxe into it. It's likely going to be a spectacular bruise. “I understand that Scientia is doing me a favor by volunteering. I don’t want to pay him back for it by making him suffer when he doesn’t have to. That wasn’t a strike that was going to end the fight, so I pulled back.”

“I see.”

The silence that follows stretches thin between them. Gladio forces himself to count the seconds of his breathing.

“At the end, were you unable to access the Armiger?”

(He remembers trying to grab the hunting knife, not being able to get to it until the third try, while Ignis shuddered his life out slowly on the floor. But that is not what Monica asked for.)

“No, ma’am. I—” Gladiolus refuses to look away from her though he can feel shame burning under his skin. “I meant to summon the sword, but I—stopped.”

“Even though you could have killed Mr. Scientia in that moment.”

Gladio hates that he didn’t anticipate that trap from her more than he hates that she sprung it on him. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

He wishes the truth sounded less pathetic than it does. “I didn’t want to kill him again.”

* * *

Gladiolus spends the next week waiting for his father to bring up his failure either in their private training or to call him into his office at the Citadel to discuss the matter. But Clarus says nothing, and Gladio doesn’t know how to bring it up on his own. 

(Gladio and Ignis only speak via text, and only about Noctis. The bruise Ignis gave him turns his right forearm purple-blue-green. It had too much time to settle before Gladio had to use a phoenix down, so the curative does nothing for it.)

* * *

The following Thursday is the festival that marks the start of winter, and a traitorous part of Gladio is relieved that he can put off facing Ignis in the training room for another week. Unlike the autumn festival, the winter festival is far more subdued. Gladio remembers the holiday when he was a kid, when his mother was still alive, how it was a celebration of family and done to honor Eos’s time of renewal before the spring. 

After the Empire’s attack on Shiva and the goddess’s death, the festival has taken a far more somber air. King Regis and Prince Noctis spend from sunset until sunrise in a silent candlelight vigil for the goddess in the chapel dedicated to the Hexatheon that's next to the Citadel. Members of each of Insomnia’s noble families join them in the pews, including Ignis and his uncle. Gladio, his father, and many members of the Kingsglaive and Crownsguard stand watch over all of them. 

It’s difficult to remember that Noctis is supposed to be the Chosen King when Gladio catches Ignis poking Noct awake for the second time. Right now he is just a bored, tired teenager, struggling to stay awake through the cold, early hours of the morning. 

(Clarus told him that Noctis was to be the Chosen King before Gladio’s first session for the Shield tattoo. He quoted the Cosmogony, words about  _ purging darkness _ and  _ the power of light _ that sounded vaguely familiar. It wasn’t much of an explanation, but in the end Clarus had merely pointed out that whatever Noct’s destiny, it was Gladio’s to be at his side.)

Gladio can’t help but notice that, this time, Ignis does not look at him. 

* * *

But Noctis does, all through their training session at the Citadel on Saturday. He’s fifteen and probably thinks he’s being stealthy, but his little sideways glances at Gladio while he’s warming up, running drills, and cooling down are obvious as hell. 

(Even though they’re both using wooden training swords when they spar, Gladio keeps a phoenix down in one pocket and a hi-potion in the other all the same. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust himself, and he knows it would be far more difficult to actually kill Noctis with a wooden sword, but he’s seen enough of what his accidents do to Ignis to want to risk anything like it with Noct.)

Gladio pokes Noctis between his shoulder blades with the tip of his wooden sword to remind Noct that he needs to really lean into and hold the sitting forward bend properly. The last time he let Noctis get away with a half-assed stretching routine, Ignis had chewed him out for the muscle spasms Noctis ended up with the next day. Once he’s satisfied with the quality of Noct’s stretching, Gladio says, “All right, out with it already.”

“Out with what?” Noctis’s voice is muffled because his face is practically buried in his own knees.

“Whatever it is you want to say. Or have you just been admiring my face this whole time? Got a little crush, Highness?”

Noctis sputters and Gladio smirks at him, not that Noct can see it.

“You wish.”

“Trust me, I don’t.”

Noctis raises his head to glare at him, and Gladio very carefully nudges his head back down. Gladio can practically feel the indignant little huff that Noctis lets out, but he does go back to stretching. He waits quietly, patiently, knowing that Noctis will get back to the topic at hand when he’s ready.

After a while, Noctis finally asks, “Is something bothering Ignis?”

Gladio thinks of nine days of nothing but the shortest texts between them. He thinks of Ignis’s fury in the training room, the cold way he declared their fight over, how methodically Ignis is avoiding him.

(How Gladio himself is doing nothing to try to bridge the gap.)

“What makes you think something is?”

“I dunno. He’s just—not Ignis.”

“That’s helpful.”

Noctis moves out of the forward bend and glares at him all the way until he’s lying flat on his back. He brings his right knee up to his chest and holds it close. “I don’t know,” he says again, slower and with a bit of strain in his voice. Gladio can’t tell if it’s from the stretching or his worry over Ignis. “He seems really distant. Tense. I startled him a couple times, and I wasn’t even trying to.”

No, it’s definitely the worry. Noctis’s annoyance at Gladio is gone, and the frown he’s wearing is all concern. Gladio didn’t think he could feel more guilt about this situation, but Noct is applying a new round of it easy enough. It hadn’t occurred to him that Ignis might be having difficulty outside their sessions, and the fact that it’s been bad enough for Noctis to notice means that Ignis is definitely off-kilter with more people than just Gladio.

“Iggy’s really busy right now.” That’s not a lie, and Gladio does his best to sound casual about it. “His training for the Crownsguard is getting harder. Just try to be less of a royal pain in the ass, and Iggy’ll lighten up.”

Noctis scowls at him and “accidentally” kicks Gladio’s ankle when he switches legs for the stretch.

* * *

Gladiolus walks Noctis out to the waiting car, and Ignis is there, looking every bit as composed as Gladio knows he isn’t. Once Noctis is safely in the back seat and Ignis shuts the door, Gladio speaks up, quietly enough that he hopes Noctis can’t hear. “Hey. We need to talk.”

Ignis tenses and then, with great care, forces himself to relax. Gladio can practically see the order work its way through Ignis’s body. It doesn’t quite reach his hands. “I have a busy schedule.”

One he rearranged for the express purpose of letting Gladio kill him once a week.

“I know. Just—whenever you’ve got an open slot. It won’t take long.” Gladio shoves his hands in his pockets and pretends it’s just because of the early winter chill. The phoenix down and hi-potion brush his fingers. “I’ve got some things to say to you before Thursday.”

“All right,” Ignis says after a long stretch of silence. “I’ll review my week and let you know when I’m available.”

“Thanks, Ignis.”

Ignis does this thing with his shoulders that’s not quite a shrug before he climbs into the car. Gladio stays on the Citadel steps and watches while Ignis drives away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that, no one died (on screen) in this chapter. Amazing.


	5. Winter II, M.E. 751

Early the next morning, Ignis texts Gladiolus a small selection of possible dates and times that he is available to talk. Gladio rolls onto his side and blinks at his phone screen for a few seconds before he pulls up his own schedule for the week. He may already be a full-fledged member of the Crownsguard, but all first-year members still have rigorous training, and he has his additional training for Shield duties on top of it. 

Including his fights with Ignis.

There is a slot today that would work, but Gladio isn’t ready. He still doesn’t know what to say, much less  _ how _ to say it, and his gut tells him he really only has one chance to get it right. He needs time to think.

Gladio types out a careful response and asks for the slot on Wednesday morning, in the small slice of time after Ignis drops Noctis off at school and before Ignis heads to a tutoring session. Ignis confirms immediately, and Gladio wonders if Ignis was also waiting in his bed for Gladio to make a decision before he could go about his day.

* * *

_ I am not so fragile that you can break me.  _

_ You will not break me. _

The nuances between  _ can _ and  _ will _ follow Gladio like a shadow, trailing behind him as he works in the Citadel, and Gladio ponders them over the next three days. He compares his deaths at his father’s hands to Ignis’s deaths at his and examines his own frustration and guilt at the latter. He remembers all the times he froze, or it seemed the world did: his sword through Ignis’s chest, their locked eyes as blood spurted from Ignis’s neck, the strike that left Ignis’s insides exposed and gaping.

The moment Gladio realized he did not want to kill Ignis, trapped beneath him, when it would have been easy to. He thinks about Ignis, calling dying  _ peculiar _ , the gasps he makes when a phoenix down drags him back to life, his silence in the locker room, his fury when he yielded.

He thinks of the first time he hurt Ignis, his sword cutting into Ignis’s arm and his side, the surprise and the almost-fear in his eyes, and how Ignis did not yield then.

Gladiolus waits outside his father’s office in the Citadel late Tuesday night and ignores the Crownsguard standing outside it as thoroughly as they ignore him. It was an unofficial matter, Gladio told them, and not worth interrupting the meeting going on inside.

It takes almost forty minutes before the door opens and Cor and then Clarus emerge. Gladio salutes them both, fist over heart, and when he straightens up, there is a faint smile tugging at the corner of his father’s mouth.

“I told you that I was planning to go home tonight,” Clarus tells Cor, and Cor makes a sound that Gladio is pretty sure means,  _ yeah, right. _ He’s also pretty sure that Cor’s feelings about the matter are correct. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

They exchange goodbyes, and Clarus dismisses the Crownsguard from their posts and locks up his office. Gladio waits until the hallway is clear to start, “If you need to stay here—”

Clarus waves off his concern. “It’s fine. I can work from home just as easily as from here. How long have you been waiting for me?”

“Longer than’ll make you happy to hear.” Gladio’s attempt at a smile doesn’t last for long when his father turns back around. The look Clarus gives him means Gladio might as well just plow straight ahead. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Clarus motions for him to continue and heads for the elevators. 

Gladio falls into step beside him and looks straight ahead, chin slightly lifted, shoulders straight, arms relaxed at his sides. Or as relaxed as he can make them. “Does Ignis still want to train with me?”

“So far as I know, yes.” The way Clarus answers makes it clear that he knows what happened almost two weeks ago. How Gladio failed. But he doesn’t bring that failure up, and it leaves Gladio wondering whether this is its own kind of test, its own kind of training. “Are you still up for our session?”

* * *

Hot water, soap, and a good washcloth are all Gladio needs to get rid of his sweat and the blood on his chest. It’s not a process he thinks about much anymore, which leaves his mind free to think of more difficult things while he showers. 

Ignis will not want to be managed. He will not want to be handled with delicate words. He will not want to be made to feel less than, weaker. 

If Gladio is going to keep Ignis as a sparring partner, let alone a friend, he is going to need to leave himself open, vulnerable. He can’t posture or put up a front. He will need to be honest—more than honest. He is going to need to say things that neither of them will like hearing.

And at least then, if Ignis quits, he will do it knowing exactly why Gladio did not kill him.

* * *

Gladio opens the door to the small conference room Ignis scheduled and finds Ignis already there, sitting quietly at the side of the table that will let him face the door, a notebook and pen in front of him. He resists the unsteady urge to laugh because he doubts Ignis would appreciate knowing how odd he looks to Gladio, like he’s ready to take detailed notes on the proceedings, like this is some kind of official meeting that needs to have a record. He also resists the urge to be casual, to call Ignis  _ Iggy _ , to smile or to joke. After all, Gladiolus also thought this meeting was important enough to wear his Crownsguard uniform to even though he will have to change right out of it afterwards for a fitness test. 

Ignis is dressed as he always is, perfectly at home in his formal clothing. His hands are on the table in front of him, relaxed, though his fingers are threaded together loosely. The tension in his jaw is what gives his unease away. 

“Thank you for making time for me,” Gladio says as he takes his own seat across from Ignis.

“It was no trouble. What did you wish to speak with me about?”

Gladio lets the white lie pass by uncontested. “I wanted to apologize for the offense I caused you during our last fight.”  

A strange expression flickers across Ignis’s face, and Gladio hurries to finish the rest of his carefully planned opening, because once he gets these words out, he doubts Ignis will let him deliver the rest of the words he rehearsed as he rehearsed them. Even the best plans don’t always survive the first strike in a battle. 

“I also wanted to explain what happened and see if we can figure out a way to keep it from happening again.”

Ignis is silent for a long moment. His lips are pressed into a thin, bloodless line, and when he does finally respond, he ignores Gladio’s apology. “I would appreciate an explanation of what happened. I—in hindsight, I’m uncertain if my interpretation of events was correct.”

_ It wasn’t _ , Gladio wants to say. He can guess at why Ignis responded the way he did, but it’s entirely possible that his own interpretation of what happened with Ignis is also wrong. Still. The fact that Ignis is calm, if tense, and willing to listen to an explanation is one of the better outcomes of this opening exchange.

But now comes the difficult, unpredictable part. Gladio steels himself for a level of honesty worse than the one he was maneuvered into by Monica. “I’ve been—struggling with this part of my Shield training. I’ve known since I was a kid that I’d end up fighting my father, and I was ready for that. I thought I was, at least. But you were a surprise.”

“An unwelcome one.” Ignis is frowning now, just a faint downturn of his lips, and Gladio hurries to course correct.

“It’s not you, exactly. I mean, it’s partially about you, but I—” Ignis is looking increasingly unhappy. Or irritated. Not yet to anger or to fury, and Gladio searches for the words that will set this conversation as right as it can be. “I’m doing a shit job of repaying you for your help.”

Either the sentiment or the swearing draws Ignis up short. He looks surprised for a moment, which is better than the frowning he was doing, but he quickly composes himself into something neutral. “I’m not doing this as a favor to you. There is nothing to repay. This is training for me as well.”

_ It isn’t just for you, _ Ignis had said, and Gladio remembers his father’s emphasis on Ignis volunteering. That the king had indicated it would be beneficial for both of Noctis’s retainers to have this training. Gladio could let himself get distracted by this tangent of Ignis’s motivations, how he even found out about this part of Shield training, and why he felt it appropriate to volunteer, but he needs to stay focused for now, on himself, not Ignis.

“I get that. But what I do to you—it’s different from what my father does to me.”

“I’m not an object that you act upon, Gladiolus. I am an equal participant.”

_ Fuck, _ there’s the anger. It’s emerging in the sharpness of Ignis’s voice and the way his threaded fingers grip each other tighter. Gladio scrambles for something that will keep Ignis from leaving. 

“I never said you were. Look—you know what it’s like fighting my dad? He runs me through every time.” Gladio taps his chest with two fingers, right beneath his sternum. “One strike to the heart, no other injuries. We time the length of our fights in seconds. The longest I’ve lasted is forty-six, and I can’t even do that consistently. I haven’t come close to injuring him.”

The anger doesn’t melt away, but Ignis appears to have leashed it a little. It doesn’t seem to be building for the moment. Gladio will take what he can get. “Dying like that? It’s easy. Almost painless. And I’m not good enough to do that for you. I just make a fucking mess of you, and whatever Noct likes to whine about me torturing him during training, I don’t actually  _ like _ doing the real thing. Not to a friend. Not to you.”

“Gladio—” But Ignis pauses, and this time Gladio thinks he might really be at a loss for words. He’s frowning again, but it’s less angry this time, more considering. When he finally does speak, his voice is clipped. “I can’t simply quit.”

He could, but he won’t. Not when he knows that King Regis thinks this is for the best. Not when he thinks he can endure it. Gladio is familiar enough with Ignis to know that he has never resigned from any task, and his pride won’t let this one be the first. Not when his eighteenth birthday and his acceptance into the Crownsguard are a few months away.

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just—that’s why I froze in our last fight. I remembered how I killed you the time before and I—” Gladio shrugs, hoping that will communicate his guilt and his frustration at himself. “I didn’t want to fuck that up again. Even though I had you pinned, I just—couldn’t.”

Another emotion that Gladio can’t name flickers through Ignis’s expression. “Is that also why you pulled your strike?”

So Ignis noticed. Gladio manages to keep from wincing, barely. “Yeah, basically. I realized you were going to block me enough that I was just going to hurt you, not kill you. And I didn’t want to hurt you more than I had to.”

Ignis glances down at his hands. His frown deepens, and as Gladio watches, Ignis slowly relaxes his clenched fingers. “It felt as though—I thought you might be—” He clears his throat and looks up. His voice is steadier the second time, though there’s something uncertain in his gaze. “I’m relieved to hear that you were not expressing contempt for my performance.”

That admission hits nearly as hard as his father’s greatsword. “ _ Fuck, _ no, of course not, Ignis.” When Ignis doesn’t respond, Gladio keeps going, because the last thing he wants is for Ignis to walk away from this conversation thinking that Gladio believes he’s beneath him somehow. “You almost broke my arm last time. Hell, I’ve still got the bruise from when you disarmed me that second time. You’re great, you’re  _ always _ great, and you’re learning fast. Once you get access to the Armiger, that’s going to level the playing field between us a lot.”

“Will that be an issue for you?”

Gladio is surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

The frown is still there, but the uncertainty has mostly faded. “You indicated that you don’t like to, ah, make a mess of me, as it were. As the gap between our abilities narrows, presumably it will be more difficult to kill me going forward. There will be more—mess, on both our parts.”

“ _ Both _ is the thing I care about,” Gladio answers, with every bit of conviction he can muster. “Both of us. Not just me, mangling you. Iggy, I’m going to be so fucking proud of you the first time you kill me.”

That startles a short bark of almost-laughter out of Ignis, and Gladio breaks into a grin for what feels like the first time in years. 

Ignis gets himself back under control unfairly fast. He picks up his pen and holds it poised above his notebook—so he is actually going to end up taking notes. Gladio bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “So how do you suggest we prevent this from happening again?”

“Besides waiting for you to get access to the Armiger?” Gladio plants his left elbow on the table so he can rest his chin in his hand. “Part of what’s been getting to me has been feeling like I’m just the thing you show up to get murdered by. Which is unfair to you,” he adds quickly when Ignis’s eyes narrow.

“It’s unfair to you as well,” Ignis says as he starts writing. “I’m doing everything in my power to make you earn it.”

Gladio snorts, and he can practically see the last of Ignis’s tension drain from his body. 

Maybe, just maybe, they’ve salvaged this.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but I was thinking—what if we did some training together? Not us against each other, and not me training you like I do with Noct. But—together, somehow. On the same side.”

Ignis doesn’t reject the suggestion outright, which feels like a small miracle, considering how busy he already is. His brow furrows as he thinks. “Lord Amicitia said we weren’t to train without a supervisor.”

“That was about our fights, not this. We’ll use practice weapons and everything.” Gladio hesitates, but he’s already been uncomfortably honest about everything else, so he might as well continue while they’re still at the table. “I’d like to meet up with you in a training room and not dread it.”

Ignis drops his gaze down to his notebook and writes another line. “As would I.”

“Let’s give it a shot, then. Send me your training schedule, and I’ll see what I can make work.” If he could just crash one of the sessions already accounted for in Ignis’s schedule, then Ignis won’t have to rearrange anything or give up more of his time. 

“I’ll have it to you by this evening.” Ignis pulls out his phone to check the time and then starts gathering up his things. “Let me know at our session tomorrow what will work best for you.” 

Gladio isn’t offended that Ignis is ending their meeting so abruptly—Ignis’s day, as always, is going to be a busy one. He stands up. “I will. And Ignis—”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For giving me a chance to explain and to figure this out.”

“It was no hardship, Gladio,” Ignis says, and Gladio lets him have his second white lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be back to our regularly scheduled blood and guts soon.


	6. Winter III, M.E. 751

Gladiolus heads for the training room on Thursday afternoon, his head held high and his shoulders squared, hoping the confidence in his posture will overshadow the uncertainty in his chest. For all his conversation with Ignis yesterday went well, his words are only worth something if they are backed up by his actions. 

He can’t pull his strikes again. He can’t afford to have Ignis at his mercy and hesitate. The only way to finish healing the fracture in their friendship is for Gladio to be as ruthless with Ignis as he would be with an actual enemy. He must make Ignis bleed whenever the opportunity presents itself until one of them cuts the other down. 

The training room is still when he opens the door, which is enough of a surprise that Gladio hesitates on the threshold. Monica stands at her usual spot by the wall, wearing an unreadable expression, but Ignis is nowhere in sight. Every other time they had a session together, Ignis was here first, and now—

“Mr. Amicitia,” Monica says, her voice as cool as when he left her office in shame. “Begin your warm-ups.”

He wants to ask about Ignis, but he doesn’t want to fall even further in her regard by disobeying a direct order. He murmurs his acknowledgment and moves to the far end of the training room to begin his stretches. It is a struggle to keep his mind focused on his movements when his attention keeps straying to Ignis’s absence.

A break in pattern doesn’t automatically mean that something is wrong, even if this is Ignis, and he’s never known Ignis to be late. Their conversation yesterday ended well. Hell, he nearly made Ignis laugh. He can’t imagine what could have happened that would have made Ignis—

No. Gladio shoves the doubt aside. If nothing else, their days in the training room have proven that Ignis has a core of steel. If he changed his mind about participating, he would have the guts to inform Gladio and Monica in person.

Twenty minutes later, Gladio is working up a sweat from the two-handed sword forms he’s drilling. The training room door bursts open and Ignis tumbles through, dressed to train but flushed and looking harried. “My apologies,” he says to Monica, trying to keep his voice level despite how hard he’s breathing. “The meeting ran longer than anticipated.”

Monica waves him toward the center of the room. “No harm done, Mr. Scientia. Begin your warm-ups.”

Gladio tosses Ignis a  _ hey _ and manages to keep his mouth shut when he notices that Ignis is wearing black dress socks with his sneakers. Ignis must have bolted from that meeting room the second protocol would let him get away with it and rushed through changing. Pointing that out now will just embarrass him.  


“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Ignis says as he begins stretching his arms. “I’ll hurry.”

“Take your time. You should be at your best if we’re going to do this.”

Ignis glances at him sideways, but Gladio turns his attention back to his own drills. 

By the time Ignis declares himself ready to go, the uncertainty in Gladio’s chest has transformed into determination. His feelings don’t matter right now; what matters is proving to Ignis that everything Gladio said yesterday was true. 

After a moment’s consideration, Ignis swaps the lance he ran drills with for the pollaxe on the weapons rack. He looks to Gladio, and there’s a silent question, a quiet challenge, in the tilt of his head and the steadiness of his gaze.

Gladio smiles back, all teeth. He shows Monica his phoenix down and then summons the same sword and shield he used in their last fight. The faint nod Ignis gives him in return sets Gladio’s blood alight with anticipation. He made the right choice, the only choice. 

It’s time for them to do this fight properly. 

Ignis strikes first again, a high cut that is meant to lodge the axe head in a skull. Gladio ducks underneath and twists so Ignis can’t bring the blade down on his sword arm with the same stroke. In a flash, Ignis changes his grip on the pollaxe to stab at Gladio’s chest with the spike at the butt end of the haft. Gladio gets his shield up and lunges forward when the pollaxe skitters off the shield and uselessly past his ribs. Ignis sidesteps the sword aimed at his gut, and Gladio lets momentum turn into a chase across the training room. 

Gladio follows Ignis, pressing forward with every opportunity, and this time taking far more care not to let Ignis disarm him. Gladio targets Ignis’s periphery instead of his core, forcing Ignis to expend more energy to protect himself, to turn the pollaxe in ways that are less advantageous to him. Gladio needs to wear Ignis down and make a real opening, not fall into a trap. 

Ignis is as clever as he is quick on his feet, and soon he changes his own strategy to dodging and creating space rather than trying to push Gladio back with the pollaxe. His own counterstrikes are impeccably timed and all the more vicious for it. 

But the change in strategy is a trap in itself. Gladio starts anticipating the minimum necessary force behind a block and a lightning-fast retreat or swift roll out of the way, so when Ignis puts all his weight into knocking Gladio’s sword aside, he’s unprepared. He manages to keep a grip on his sword, but his arm is flung wide, and his return is too slow. 

Ignis is faster. The pollaxe spins in his hands, and Gladio can’t clear the spike entirely. It slams into his right hip, a bright explosion of pain, and he swears he can feel the steel scrape against bone. Pain lances down his leg, across his hips, and up to knock the air from his lungs in a strangled burst. 

Instinct would have Gladio drop his sword and curl protectively around the wound, press his hands to it to prevent a rush of hot blood pouring down his thigh. 

Training has Gladiolus slam his sword into Ignis’s upper arm, deep enough he truly does feel the bone beneath it. 

Ignis’s scream is a teeth-clenched hiss. He tears the pollaxe free of Gladio’s body with his one working hand, and Gladio staggers at the new rush of pain. 

Gladio keeps to his feet by some miracle, and when he lunges, it’s a desperate thing. Ignis tries to dodge, tries to block, but their blood is on the floor and the pollaxe isn’t balanced for one-handed use. Gladio gets under Ignis’s guard— 

_ (blood spills down his pelvis and thighs and cascades onto the floor like a bucket overturned) _

—and runs him through.

The tip of the sword hits beneath Ignis’s ribs, not quite on the mark. Ignis chokes, loud and wet, and drops the pollaxe as he crumples backward. Gladio follows him down. 

They hit the ground hard, and the impact leaves Gladio gasping from pain. But his pain is nothing in comparison to Ignis’s hands scrabbling at the sword buried in him. Gladio uses both hands to twist his sword at the right angle so Ignis stops choking and his hands go still. 

It is the quickest Gladio can dispense mercy.

Gladio doesn’t wrench the sword free, he just dismisses it. His hands tremble as he digs through the blood-soaked pocket of his sweatpants, but he finds the phoenix down. It’s the wrong shade of red now, but it still catches fire when he presses it to Ignis’s chest.

As soon as he hears Ignis’s gasp, Gladio lowers himself (collapses) onto his side so his weight isn’t on his injured hip. He reaches for the Armiger, and a potion shimmers into existence between his fingers on the first try. One quick motion, and then healing magic washes over and through him, knitting him back together. 

He rolls onto his back, enjoying the aching relief of his agony disappearing nearly as suddenly as it struck. And the relief that this time he didn’t fail his father, Ignis, Monica, or himself.

Gladio gets back on his feet before Ignis is finished coming back to himself. Ignis is a little dazed, but he accepts the help up when Gladio offers a hand. Once Ignis is steady on his feet, Gladio slaps his other hand on Ignis’s shoulder, part congratulations, part reassurance. “First blood today. You good?”

Ignis blinks up at him, not entirely back to himself yet. “Yes, of course,” he says, and Gladio is almost certain that’s the truth.

* * *

By the time Gladio makes it to the locker room, Ignis is showered and toweled off but only partially dressed. He has his black slacks and white button-up shirt on, but his vest is draped over the bench next to a pair of white athletic socks and Ignis’s feet are bare. Ignis is digging through the locker, and what little Gladio can see of his expression means Ignis isn’t happy. His black dress shoes sit neatly under the bench, right next to a plastic bag that has bloodstained clothes peeking out of it.

“Hey, Ignis,” Gladio manages to keep his amusement out of his voice as he walks past Ignis to his own locker. “Are you good with me hijacking your Monday slot?”

“What—yes, that works.” Ignis sounds distracted, which means he is still probably recovering from their training. Or else he is just realizing that he wore his dress socks to their training and is horrified by the prospect of wearing the white socks with the rest of his outfit.

Gladio opens his locker and digs through his own belongings. “Thanks. Let me know if you think of any ideas for what we should do during the session.” 

“I will, so long as you return the favor. I’d rather not waste our time.”

Ignis is still more distracted than snippy, so Gladio doesn’t take offense. He does, however, pull out a clean pair of faded black socks. “Hey, Ignis.”

When Ignis looks up, Gladio tosses the socks to him. Ignis catches them easily, of course, and the confusion in his expression makes it difficult for Gladio to keep a straight face. 

“These’ll stick out less than the ones you’ve got.” It’s no sacrifice, either. Between Gladio’s own Crownsguard training, fitness tests, and fights with his father, it’s simpler to have spare sets of clothing stashed in every locker room that he has an assigned locker in. He only needed one overnight guard shift at the Citadel with his own blood drying in his boots to learn that lesson. 

“I—” Ignis seems to think better of whatever his first instinct was. His fingers curl around the socks as if they were made of something more delicate than cotton. “Thank you.”

When Gladio emerges from his shower, Ignis’s white socks are neatly folded and waiting for him on the bench.

* * *

Gladiolus doesn’t normally show up to the Citadel so early on a Monday, but the last thing he wants to do is inconvenience Ignis more than he has already. This time when he opens the training room door, Ignis is already there and hard at work. Ignis has a smaller room scheduled for himself, and it is a normal Crownsguard training room with a stack of thick foam mats and racks of practice weapons off to the sides and a conspicuous lack of a drain and a hose. This isn’t a room designed to see a lot of blood.

He closes the door quietly behind him and doesn’t announce his presence, preferring to watch Ignis in his drills for a moment.

Ignis has three targets set up at the far end of the room. The targets are at varying distances and are different sizes, and he has buckets of throwing knives scattered about the room. The holsters on his forearms and thighs are long empty, and the knives that used to be there are undoubtedly lodged into the targets. Gladio watches as Ignis darts from one bucket to the next, smoothly arming himself and then letting the knives fly for the targets with what Gladio thinks is barely enough time to steady himself and aim.

He’s slower than he would be with access to the Armiger, but even with as little experience as Gladio has with thrown weapons, it is still clear that Ignis has excellent technique and can control the power behind his throws. Each bucket has three knives, and Ignis hits one target with each knife before moving on. Ignis’s aim isn’t perfect yet, but all except two of the knives are in a tight cluster around the center of the targets.

Gladio lets out a whistle when Ignis empties the last bucket, and Ignis turns sharply toward him. 

Surprise flickers across Ignis’s face but is gone in a moment. “Gladio. Is it time already?”

“I’m early. Caught a ride in with my dad.” Gladio gestures toward the targets and the many, many knives lodged in them. “How long have you been at this?”

Ignis consults his watch. “About twenty minutes. This was my second round.”

Gladio does some quick mental math and is, once again, impressed by how quickly Ignis would have had to work for that to be true. He walks toward the targets and scoops up a bucket on the way. “How many rounds do you normally do?”

“Five at the start, then another five at the end.”

“Your work’s been paying off.”

Ignis pauses in his own move to grab a bucket, like the statement has caught him flat-footed. “After this long, I should certainly hope so.”

Gladio snorts and starts pulling knives out of the right-hand target. Ignis crosses to the middle target to do the same. The knives are buried deep into the wood. It takes effort to yank them free, and that gives Gladio some time to contemplate the spark of an idea. “You practice much with a moving target?”

“No,” Ignis says, and it’s almost funny how quickly he shifts so he can stare at Gladio when he registers the question’s implications.

Gladio really doesn’t have an innocent smile, but he gives Ignis his best approximation. “I know we had other plans for today, but do you want to change that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta earn my new Slow Burn tag.


	7. Winter, M.E. 752

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, giving the chapters vague dates instead of actual names is going to be a bit confusing whenever we’re in winter. For clarification, we’ve skipped past the end of the year and are now approaching Ignis’s 18th birthday.

Gladio tugs the collar of his tank top out of the way so he can peer down at the welt Ignis left just beneath his breastbone. It’s looks as painful as it feels, and it’s going to go from red to a spectacular bruise if he doesn’t take a potion soon. 

Ignis screws the cap back on his water bottle. Concern wrinkles his forehead. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s fine,” Gladio says and grabs his own water bottle from the sidelines. “My fault for falling for your feint.”

There was a small period of backsliding where Ignis had to learn to adjust his aim to anticipate a moving target that could fight back, but once he got used to it, he was as much of a menace with throwing knives as he was with a lance. The blunted knives keep Ignis from turning Gladio into a life-size version of one of Iris’s pincushions, but there is enough power behind Ignis’s throws for each one to sting whenever they connect.

Ignis continues to look concerned, so Gladio shrugs. “It’d be a waste of a potion if I took one now. You still wanted another round, yeah?”

“If you’re amenable. I’ll have to set an alarm.”

“Yeah, sure.” 

As a first-year Crownsguard, Gladiolus’s schedule gets changed up frequently so he can officially get experience in all the Crownsguard’s basic duties, and his current schedule means he doesn’t have anywhere else to be today. Tomorrow, though, he’ll be stuck on Insomnia’s Wall, guarding an entry checkpoint. Not even the Prince’s Shield can dodge putting in time on those tedious positions, especially not when Noctis will be in school all day and doesn’t need Gladio hovering. Gladio won’t drop his share of those assignments entirely until Noctis is out of school and takes on more royal duties.

Ignis sets an alarm on his phone. Gladio finishes off half his water bottle and then helps Ignis reset the room. Ignis is still at a disadvantage without the Armiger, so to level the playing field, he has blunted throwing knives in buckets scattered about the room and can retrieve and reuse any that he already threw. It’s a poor attempt to recreate the tactical advantage of the Crystal’s magic, but Ignis rarely flounders or loses track of where his available weapons are. 

“Are you ready?” Ignis strides back to his usual side of the room. His hands check the knives strapped to his thighs one last time before he reaches into a bucket for another pair. 

Gladio summons a wooden practice sword and a small, round shield as he falls into a defensive stance. “Yeah. Your turn to start.”

Without someone else to signal the start of the fight, they trade turns making the first move. The words are barely past Gladio’s lips before Ignis’s first knife is out of his hand and in the air. 

The knife whizzes over Gladio’s head as he ducks and charges forward. Ignis twists out of the way of Gladio’s first strike and slashes for his ribs, but Gladio adjusts the angle of his shield to catch the blade before it can slip past. The screech of metal on metal causes a spark to ignite in Gladio’s blood.

He isn’t eager for his deadly fights with Ignis, but their sparring on Mondays is another matter.

Ignis dodges Gladio’s counterstrike and throws his second knife to force Gladio to shift his weight and change his trajectory to keep from getting hit. That buys Ignis enough time to put space between them with a backflip that Gladio will never be flexible enough to reproduce. It puts Ignis right next to another bucket of knives, which he scoops up immediately and sends flying in the next heartbeat.

Gladio catches the first two with his shield, but the third clips his right side and  _ shit, _ that hurts. Not as bad as if it were a real knife, of course, but enough to make him wince. It’s not in a vital area, though, so the game is still on.

He chases Ignis around the training room, and it is much more a chase than any of their Thursday fights. Unencumbered by a polearm that he must keep in his hands, Ignis is a gymnast of a fighter, light on his feet and just as devious. He can put distance between them and still be on offense, while Gladio always has to block or dodge until he can close the gap between them. 

When Gladio finally gets close enough, he feints a thrust to the left and then cuts across with a backhanded swing. Ignis manages to dodge both, drops low, and knocks Gladio’s feet out from under him.

Gladio hits the floor hard. Metal flashes in his periphery, so Gladio banishes his weapons and rolls onto his back just in time to catch Ignis’s arm with his left hand, before the knife can slam into his chest. Ignis tries to wrench free, but Gladio grabs Ignis by the tank top with his right hand and puts all his upper body strength into throwing Ignis across and away from him.

Ignis crashes into a bucket, sending training knives clattering across the floor, but is back on his feet as quickly as Gladio. Gladio summons his shield in time to block the next knife thrown at him. He charges again, this time trying to force Ignis toward a section of the training room that has fewer buckets—and fewer knives—in it. Either Ignis recognizes what Gladio is trying or else he has decided to switch tactics, because instead of throwing more knives, he lets Gladio get in close.

Blocking with two throwing knives against a sword is a riskier maneuver than if Ignis were using a polearm. There’s much less margin for error, but Ignis catches the wooden sword on Gladio’s next swing, locking their weapons together in a momentary stalemate. Ignis still has a ways to go before he fills out—his height and his shoulders promise a solid physique in the next couple years—but he  _ has  _ gotten stronger over the months they’ve been fighting one another for all he looks like he’s trying to dress forty years older than he is. 

Gladio tries to force his sword through Ignis’s crossed knives, and in that moment, Ignis folds. He shifts the angle of his knives, so that instead of blocking the path of Gladio’s sword, they’re deflecting it over his head as he drops low again. Gladio tries to sidestep out of danger but still goes staggering when his legs get tangled up with Ignis’s. He catches himself on one knee and turns—

The alarm buzzes from the sidelines. Ignis manages to stumble to a stop instead of completing his lunge for Gladio, though it’s a near thing. He looks startled, then disgruntled as it settles in that the timer he set is the one that kept him from his victory. 

Because—yeah, the way he’s holding his knives, how off-balance and off-angle Gladio was, Ignis would have won. He has yet to win during their Thursday sessions, but on Mondays, when Ignis is more in his element, it’s not uncommon for a well-placed practice knife to score what would otherwise be a fatal hit. 

If this were a spar with Noctis, the prince would immediately start complaining about being cheated of his win. Ignis is more mature than that, and his sour expression simply melts away when he tucks the knives into the nearest bucket. Gladio resists the urge to tease Ignis and banishes his weapons so he can get back to his feet. 

“Gotta do more drills for my footwork,” Gladio says, and it’s the closest to an acknowledgment of Ignis’s almost-victory that Ignis will let him get away with. 

The first time Gladio tried to concede a maybe-vital strike in one of their spars, Ignis had gone sharp with displeasure. Ignis cares not just about winning, but about  _ earning _ his victories properly, and the fact that he could have won with three additional seconds is not the same thing as winning within the limits they agreed to. 

“And I need to work on breaking out of holds,” Ignis says as he begins collecting knives and buckets. “I am not fond of getting thrown across the room.”

Gladio laughs, just a little, as he starts helping with the room cleanup. “I didn’t throw you  _ that _ far.”

“Far enough to feel it.”

“Do you need a potion?”

Ignis hesitates, buckets dangling from his hands, but in the end he shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. Do you?”

Gladio thinks of the bruise forming on his chest, but it would be—weird to take one if Ignis wouldn’t, and it’s not like a bruise is going to kill him. “I’m good. Has your Crownsguard test been scheduled yet?”

Ignis looks as if he wants to ignore Gladio’s subject change, but he allows it in the end. “I’m supposed to find out later today. If it can’t be done on my birthday, I may need to cancel our Thursday session and do it then.”

“That’s fine with me.” Gladio pauses as a thought flits through him. “If you have to test Thursday, mind if I stop by?”

* * *

Ignis’s eighteenth birthday comes and goes without Gladio being able to do more beyond texting Ignis his wishes for a good day. Noctis should have presented Ignis with a specially commissioned royal favor for the occasion, just like he did for Gladio, and given Ignis the evening off to spend it with his uncle’s family. Gladio hopes that Noctis took Ignis’s personal style into account for the favor, though the idea of Ignis wearing the same black bead and gold skull necklace with a cross pendant in conjunction with his normal stuffy wardrobe is hilarious. He has no doubt that Ignis would wear whatever Noctis commissioned for him, and likely change his wardrobe to accommodate it in order to preserve his own pride.

(Gladio is looking forward to his own birthday and the completion of his first year as a Crownsguard, when the uniform restrictions—among many others—will relax and he will be able to wear the necklace while on duty. It is too bulky to be worn underneath the standard uniform.)

On Thursday afternoon, Gladio heads for one of the Citadel’s many training courtyards. He picks an upper balcony and places the bag with Ignis’s gift on the ground at his feet. Then he settles in, his arms braced on the railing so he can lean forward and get the best look at the action below. 

Normally the Crownsguard entrance exam is a large, complicated affair held at the end of every quarter. Ignis, like Gladio, is an exception due to his status as one of the prince’s retainers and can be tested on his own. By law, all tests must be conducted publicly, with any government official or member of the Crownsguard allowed to attend as a check against bias or favoritism. There are a few other people who have stopped by to watch, peering down from balconies like Gladio is. Ignis’s uncle is actually on the sidelines, standing a few meters away from Cor and Monica, who are officiating. 

Gladio missed the basic physical fitness portion of the exam, but Ignis clearly had no trouble passing it since he is in the midst of strapping throwing knives to his forearms, hips, and thighs. Some first-year Crownsguards are setting up a variety of numbered targets at one end of the room. The targets vary in size and are set at different distances and heights. It’s a far more elaborate setup than the one Ignis used to train with, but it’s a far cry from a live target. 

Ignis is going through some warm-up stretches when he catches sight of Gladio on the balcony. He nods in acknowledgement, and Gladio, to be obnoxious, throws him a thumbs up. Ignis is too self-possessed to roll his eyes in public during an official event, but Gladio is pretty sure that Ignis is doing the mental equivalent.

Once the targets and Ignis are ready, Cor starts the next portion of the exam. He instructs Ignis to go to the mark at the center of the room and then calls six targets, one for every knife Ignis is carrying. 

Watching Ignis throw—as an observer, not an opponent—is a novel experience. Ignis’s form is excellent from standing, as is his aim, and he hits every target Cor calls, in the correct order, dead center. The first-year Crownsguard retrieve the knives from the targets and return them to Ignis for a second round, then a third. 

Cor raises the difficulty with every three rounds, and Ignis goes from standing on a mark to running toward the targets, straight on and then at diagonals. Obstacles are set up for Ignis to vault over or duck under or dodge around while at a full sprint, and Ignis always hits the targets, though his accuracy slips toward the end. Cor finally calls a stop to it when the last knife Ignis throws ends up hitting the second ring out from the bullseye. 

Sweat plasters Ignis’s hair to his forehead and his tank top to his torso. Even from the balcony, Gladio can see Ignis’s chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Cor has the first-years tear down the targets, and Ignis’s uncle provides Ignis with a towel and a bottle of water so he can recuperate. 

Monica peels off the jacket of her Crownsguard uniform, folds it neatly, and sets it aside so she can begin her warm-ups. 

Ignis eventually grabs a wooden lance and runs through several forms for Cor’s assessment. Even though Gladio doesn’t have much lance experience, he knows enough to admire Ignis’s footwork and how precise Ignis’s lunges are. 

If this were a normal entrance exam, Ignis would have squared off with one of the other Crownsguard hopefuls for a spar in front of the officiators, but a solo entrance exam means the only people to spar against  _ are _ the officiators. Gladio is a little jealous that Ignis isn’t going up against Cor—Cor had him flat on his ass three times in eighty seconds, the last one hard enough Cor had to call an end to it and give him a potion for the concussion.

Gladio is less jealous when Monica wipes the floor with Ignis. 

It isn’t the first time he’s seen Monica fight, but it is, he realizes, the first time he’s seen her fight outside a carefully choreographed spar for an audience. She normally is on the sidelines in Crownsguard training, issuing corrections and instructions, occasionally demonstrating the proper form to those who can’t get it from words alone. If not on the sidelines, he usually sees her behind a desk or a clipboard, more focused on administration than the day-to-day fighting. Based on the bits and pieces he’s put together of the stories he hears from his father and his father’s friends, he knows Monica used to be a field agent along with Dustin, until Cor hand picked them for higher leadership.

Ignis has the advantage of height and reach, but it does him little good in the face of Monica’s experience. Polearms are Monica’s weapon of choice; they are Ignis’s secondary. Gladio can’t help but wince when her lance slaps hard enough across Ignis’s side that he can hear it from the balcony.

Ignis puts up a good fight—and Gladio is fiercely proud of how Ignis never hesitates in his strikes against Monica—but it’s not enough to win. Monica gets in under Ignis’s guard, grabs the shaft of his lance, and kicks him straight in the chest. Ignis goes sprawling, and before he can scramble back to his feet, Monica has his lance aimed at his throat. He must yield because Monica tucks both their lances beneath one arm and offers her free hand to help pull Ignis back up. He salutes her, then Cor, and staggers to the sidelines toward his uncle.

* * *

“You looked good out there, Iggy,” Gladio says when he enters the locker room. 

Ignis’s hair still looks damp from his shower, but he’s mostly dressed. He’s in the middle of buttoning up his shirt—looks like he got a potion, as there’s a distinct lack of a foot-shaped bruise on his sternum. Gladio notices, but does not comment on, the silver skull pendant nestled at Ignis's collarbone. Looks like Noct  _ did _ put in some thought into what Ignis would actually like to wear. It’s also small enough that Ignis should be able to get away with wearing it under his official uniform for his first year, so Noct learned from that, too.

“Thank you. I did my best.” As if anyone would ever accuse Ignis of doing anything less. 

“I know it’s not technically official yet since you’ve got to say your oaths and Noct still needs to hook you up to the Crystal when he gets off school, but—here.” Gladio holds out the bag toward Ignis. “Happy birthday, again, and congrats on passing.”

Ignis takes the bag and gives him a curious look, probably when he registers how heavy it is. Gladio motions for him to open it. He’s only got a couple of minutes before he has to run for a test of his own, though his is a pencil and paper affair regarding troop movement during the Great War. 

Any doubts Gladio had about the suitability of his gift are quieted when Ignis looks inside the bag. “Gladio…” Ignis starts as he draws out one of the daggers. It’s one half of a matching set and has the sigil of House Scientia emblazoned on the hilts. The dagger is nearly as long as Ignis’s forearm, and he quickly sets the bag on the bench behind him so he can pull the blade out from its plain sheath.

“The sheaths were just so the daggers wouldn’t cut their way through the bag,” Gladio says. “Not like you’ll need them anyway once you get access to the Armiger tonight.”

Ignis tests the blade and looks pleased when a thin line of blood wells up from his thumb. He tosses the dagger between his hands to test the weight and balance, and by the time Ignis fits the dagger back into its sheath, he’s smiling faintly. “You commissioned these?”

“Yeah. Your uncle gave his permission to have your House sigil put on them. If you need them adjusted somehow, go ahead and take them to the royal armory, they know to bill me.”

“Thank you, Gladio. It’s quite the handsome gift.”

Gladio claps his hand on Ignis’s shoulder and leans in close, grinning. “Looking forward to you using them.”

Ignis’s smile settles into a determined line and he pulls away to put the dagger back into the bag. “As am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Lots of blood.


	8. Winter II, M.E. 752

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is your regularly scheduled reminder that this fic is rated Mature for violence/blood/gore! I'm sure you all realize that by now, but--you know, heads up.

Ignis sends Gladiolus an apologetic text early Saturday:  _ Cor can only meet with me on Monday morning, _ it reads.  _ I need to cancel our training session so I can discuss my schedule with him. _

It’s not really a surprise. Frankly, Gladio was already impressed that Ignis managed to squeeze in a consistent training schedule that was good enough to get him into Crownsguard shape on top of all the other things Ignis has to learn, manage, or attend to. While Gladio has some of his own allowances and exceptions to the typical first-year schedule on account of his position as Prince’s Shield, there’s a lot of overlap for him between the two positions at this stage of things.

Ignis, though—shit, Gladio wonders how any additional time can be squeezed out of him. 

Cor isn’t an unreasonable man, and neither is Clarus, but they both have standards for Crownsguard membership and minimum requirements to not wash out in the first year. Ignis probably won’t have to spend time on the Wall checking passes at checkpoints, but he will likely have to put in a certain number of hours to learn how to function in a four-person team, how to be on patrol, how to serve as part of an escort, and more. 

_ No problem, _ Gladio types back. It’s easy enough to ignore the needle-like sting of disappointment. He wants to see how far Ignis is with figuring out how to summon and dismiss objects from the Armiger, but Thursday is soon enough. It’s a little harder to type the follow-up:  _ If we can’t make Monday work anymore, that’s okay, too. _

_ I hope it won’t come to that, _ Ignis sends after a few moments. 

As far as an answer goes, that’s pretty noncommittal, but Gladio allows himself to tuck away a bit of hope before he starts getting ready to go to the Citadel.

* * *

Noctis is no more subtle at sixteen than he was at fifteen, and it’s abundantly clear that his head is nowhere near the training room. It’s definitely not lingering on his weekly breakfast with his father, unless King Regis has suddenly decided to text non-stop. Every time they take a water break, Noctis is glued to his cell phone. Noctis wouldn’t reply to Ignis so quickly or with that many characters, so it’s not Ignis, either.

Gladio waits until Noctis is mid-drink to snatch the phone from him. He hits the power button and holds it down while Noctis sputters on his water. Then, to be an ass, Gladio raises the phone up while it shuts down so it’s far enough out of reach that Noctis will have to either jump to grab it or warp.

Noctis does neither. He folds his arms across his chest and gives his best unimpressed look; Gladio bites the inside of his cheek and does not laugh. He does, however, guess. “Now that I have your attention instead of Prom, why don’t—”

Noctis tries to snarl, but it’s ruined by the still-developing bass in his voice: “It’s Prompto!” He flushes a little when Gladio raises an eyebrow at him and continues in a more moderate, if sullen, tone, “Don’t call him that, he hates it.”

Interesting. Noctis likes this kid enough that he tried out a nickname that backfired, huh? Gladio keeps his nose out of Noctis’s day-to-day high school life—Ignis has that covered—but it’s been almost a year now, he thinks. Almost a year since Ignis submitted a background check request to the Crownsguard. If none of that scared this Prompto off, maybe the kid’s worth being introduced to. Maybe he’ll ask Ignis to engineer something.

“Make you a deal,” Gladio says. “Promise I won’t call him Prom when I meet him if you’ll actually focus on this session.”

He should have made  _ no complaining _ part of the deal, because while Noctis completes all of his forms and his drills without half-assing any of it, he also whines about it every step of the way. Just for that, Gladio decides to start his own workout early and makes Noctis do three sets of ladders with him. 

(Ignis keeps knocking his feet out from under him. Gladio needs to be lighter, faster on his feet. The ladders will help with that.)

“I hate you,” Noctis says when Gladio finally lets him flop onto the ground to catch his breath for a few minutes before he starts stretching. 

“You liking me is not part of my job description,” Gladio shoots back, and this time he does laugh when Noctis flips him off.

* * *

Gladio arrives first at their training room on Thursday, though Ignis isn’t far behind. They stretch, run through their forms, and Gladio takes a few seconds every now and then to watch Ignis in motion. 

Ignis has finally abandoned polearms—for this fight, at least. There’s always the possibility he has one stashed away in the Armiger, but Gladio doubts Ignis will reach for it today. Not when Ignis has to concentrate for a precious heartbeat to summon and dismiss the daggers. He’s doing that between each form, clearly trying to squeeze in additional practice with the Crystal’s magic even now.

(Ignis is using the daggers that Gladio gave him. Something between satisfaction and pride swells in his chest before he dismisses it.)

The portion of his brain dedicated to being a Shield files that away as a weakness to exploit. Ignis won’t be able to recover as quickly as someone more experienced with the Crystal’s magic can, and should Gladio manage to knock the daggers free, he needs to be prepared to press his advantage. Gladio doesn’t ever want to drive Ignis to the point where he yields to save his pride again. 

He spends the last of his warm-up mentally cutting down an empty-handed Ignis with every one of his strikes. By the time Monica calls them to show their phoenix downs, Gladio has once again smothered that bit of apprehension that’s always present when he walks into this room. It gets easier every time, and he wonders if there will eventually be a time when he doesn’t feel it.

Ignis pockets his phoenix down and calls his daggers to hand. Gladio reaches into the Armiger and pulls out a two-handed greatsword. It isn’t as wide as the swords he started training with after the solstice, but it is much longer than a typical sword and has plenty of weight to it. This time he’ll be the one with the advantage of reach, and Ignis will have to risk getting in close or throwing his daggers.

If the thin press of Ignis’s lips are anything to go by, he has also done that same assessment. He gives Gladio a look that almost feels like a challenge, and it sends a prickle down Gladio’s spine. 

When Monica gives the signal to start, Ignis falls back into a defensive stance immediately. Gladio takes it as an invitation. He charges forward, sword held parallel to the floor in both hands, and Ignis sidesteps as expected. It’s fast enough that Ignis doesn’t even have to use his daggers to deflect: just one quick movement sideways and out of danger. 

Ignis takes a swipe at Gladio’s ribs as momentum carries Gladio past, but it’s more boundary-testing than true intent. The knife catches the edge of Gladio’s tank as he angles his body out of the way, but Gladio continues with that twist and puts the force of his whole body into delivering a brutal backswing.

His weight training is working because the swing comes at such a speed that it forces Ignis to bring up his daggers to keep the sword from driving into his upper arm instead of ducking out of the way. The clash of metal-on-metal echoes off the room’s high ceiling. 

Ignis is too smart to get into a contest of brute-strength with Gladio, so when Gladio shoves against his blades, he doesn’t resist head on. He uses the daggers to adjust the path the sword wants to take away from his body so he can put space between them once again. 

Just as Gladio takes the first steps to charge him a second time, Ignis hurls the dagger in his left hand straight for Gladio. If Gladio had a shield, it would be easy to deflect, or if there were enough space—and corresponding time—between them, he could dismiss the sword and summon one. But there isn’t. There’s a burst of adrenaline as Gladio twists the sword in his hands. 

The blade isn’t wide enough to save him entirely, but he manages to knock the dagger off course. It bites into his right shoulder, a bright splash of pain down his arm and across his chest, and that slows his swipe at Ignis enough that he only scores a shallow slice across one thigh instead of running Ignis through.

Compartmentalizing pain and the screaming desperation to live is something Gladio is still figuring out. Ignis is his teacher here; he has drawn Gladio’s blood in every fight since the first time he stabbed Gladio. Gladio has enough experience with it now that he only hisses when the dagger dissolves and returns to Ignis. The blood that’s spilling down his chest is going to cause more problems in the short term than the actual injury. Blood will turn the floor slick and his footsteps unsteady.

Ignis is slower at dismissing and recalling the daggers if they’re not in his hands. It’s a problem Gladio is well acquainted with, one that should diminish with time and practice. Until then, it’s just another weakness to exploit. 

Gladio sets his teeth and charges a third time, but instead of trying to maintain perfect form, he lets his right arm drop slightly. Enough that it looks genuine, like he is trying to hold the greatsword but can’t quite manage it, and not like the strategy it actually is. He hopes. 

To Ignis’s credit, he doesn’t buy it immediately. He is careful to maintain his distance until he sees an opening, and then he goes in quickly to strike and backs out just as fast. Most openings are ones he legitimately makes for himself; a few are calculated risks on Gladio’s side. And the fact remains that, with Gladio’s dominant shoulder injured and bleeding, time is not on his side.

Ignis leaves bloody lines on Gladio’s arms, across his ribs, and Gladio retreats and retreats. Blood soaks his tank top, hot and clinging. He doesn’t have to fake the tremor in his injured shoulder or how tightly his jaw is clenched or how harsh his breathing is. 

He lets the tip of his sword waver, and Ignis darts in the second it no longer points at him. Gladio meets Ignis, steel on steel, and instead of pushing past the pain in his shoulder and using his dwindling strength to try to break through like Ignis expects, it’s Gladio’s turn to give way. He slashes upward, toward Ignis’s throat.

Ignis isn’t ready when the resistance disappears, and he tries to jerk back out of range. He’s not quite fast enough. 

Neither is Gladio. The sword catches Ignis on the edge of his jaw and slashes nearly to his ear before he leaps out of the way. Blood slides down Ignis’s neck immediately, but it isn’t  _ from _ his neck, and Gladio knows that’s the only chance he had for that particular trick. 

Ignis doesn’t try to stem the bleeding, which is smart on his part. No reason to make his hands slippery from his own blood. But his eyes are wide and startled, and something in Gladio twists at the sight of it. He dislikes that expression on Ignis’s face.

(He dislikes Ignis looking at him with anything like fear in his eyes. Ignis has gotten better at conquering that emotion when they fight, or at least masking it.

It makes it easier to face him. To hurt him. To strike true instead of hesitating.)

So Gladio smirks at Ignis and is rewarded when his gaze turns sharp. This time Ignis doesn’t wait for Gladio to charge him. He does it first, long strides, daggers out, and when Gladio swings for his midsection, Ignis ducks under the path of the sword—

—Gladio shifts his weight, readies himself to dodge Ignis’s legs, to keep from getting his feet swept out from under him—

—but Ignis doesn’t drop all the way to the floor. He gets under Gladio’s guard and buries a dagger in his gut, just beneath his ribs. 

It knocks the air from Gladio as surely as if he’d been knocked off his feet. But the pain is far worse, a jolt of fire that lances from pelvis to sternum. He dismisses—loses control—of his sword with a strangled sound and clamps his hands around Ignis’s wrist to keep Ignis from twisting and slicing upward, through his heart. 

Before Gladio can wrench himself off of Ignis’s blade, Ignis drives the second one into the side of his neck, down and out of the hollow of his throat. 

Blood sprays from the wound, catches Ignis across the face, dark red splattered across his glasses. 

Gladio coughs, chokes, and the color drains out of the world from the outside in. He crumples over the dagger in his gut, tipping forward toward Ignis, his fingers going numb and slack around Ignis’s wrist. Gladio feels the blade twist and—

—there’s Ignis above him, eyes searching and face pale. Gladio gasps for breath, tastes the blood in his throat, and rolls onto his side to gag and spit. It takes a couple heaving breaths before he’s certain he won’t vomit. Gladio wipes his mouth with the least bloody patch of his right arm. 

He pushes himself up to sitting then and grimaces when he gets his first good look at his clothes. Fuck, Ignis really did a number on him today. 

Not just a number. Ignis killed him. 

Gladio remembers his own horror and almost-panic at his first kill, so he lifts his head to find Ignis. 

Ignis is hovering nearby, his expression carefully schooled into something approaching neutral. If it weren’t for the way his blood-stained fingers curl by his sides, he might look calm. If it weren’t for the blood still on his glasses, face, throat, and even his chest. He must have taken a potion at some point while Gladio was reviving because he’s not actively bleeding anymore, but he hasn’t tried to clean his glasses or his hands. 

Gladio is used to dying; Ignis is not used to killing.

So Gladio puts on a grin and leans back, palms braced on the bloody floor. “Shit, Ignis, you’re a sneaky asshole, aren’t you?” he asks, and he doesn’t have to fake the admiration lurking beneath the question. He does have to swallow down the lingering taste of blood and suppress another round of gagging.

Ignis’s hands clench, then carefully unfurl. He scrubs his hands briefly on his shorts and then reaches out to offer Gladio help. Gladio takes his hand and lets Ignis haul him up. 

“You’re the one who tried to slit my throat first,” Ignis points out, as if this were just some kind of petty court slight he had repaid.

Gladio actually laughs at that. “Fair enough,” he says, and it feels like the truth. 

* * *

It’s odd to be dismissed first. Gladio heads to the locker room quickly and climbs into a hot, steaming shower. Not for the first time he marvels at what the Crystal’s magic can do—the only things that remain of his injuries are memories and the ruined clothes.

The training room must have been messier than Gladio realized because Ignis does not catch up to him by the time he’s out of the shower and changing into his Crownsguard uniform for his shift later this evening. It feels—wrong to just leave without checking in on Ignis again, but Monica is waiting to review his performance. 

Gladio lingers in the locker room for a few more minutes, but Ignis doesn’t appear, and Gladio finally has to leave so he won’t be late. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [tumblr](http://audreyskdramablog.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/audreyskdrama) if you like.


End file.
